


Singing You To Shipwreck

by MalevolentReverie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1950s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complete, Dark Past, Darkfic, F/M, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Introspection, Isolation, Lighthouses, Lightkeeper Ben, Maine Coast Porn, Moral Decay, Moral Dilemmas, Mutism, Nonverbal Communication, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post WW2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Sexual Tension, T e n s e, THERE’S ONLY ONE BED, Teasing, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/pseuds/MalevolentReverie
Summary: Ben Solo, an isolated lightkeeper clinging to the fringe of a disappearing trade, leads a monotonous life that keeps his demons at bay. One stormy night he finds an injured woman washed up on the rocks, and his fragile morals soon fracture under the crushing weight of loneliness.





	1. Why so green and lonely?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyburrito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyburrito/gifts).

> I AM SO EXCITE SHELLISH AND I CAME UP WITH THIS SKSKSKLJA
> 
> this goes along with "there, there" by radiohead

Impossibly, today is a lovely day.

It’s one of the brief breaks in the dark clouds and harsh winds; respite from the constant barrage of hurricanes and nor’easters. Sunlight pours on the grassy rocks where Ben sits observing a small group of puffins, the vague crash of the waves mingling with their squawks.

He squints. They’ll move on to the coast by nightfall, like all things do. Nothing inhabits the island: save for himself, his chickens, and his garden. But they’re interesting little things, and he’s always eager to find something new to sketch.

“You’ve a few more miles to go,” Ben calls. He glances at his sketch pad, already half full with different drawings from the island. “But the weather should be good. No storms over the radio.”

Even the breeze is balmy and sweet. It’s the ocean from childhood: gentle and placid, shimmering blue, not a cloud in the sky as a harbinger of doom. If he were a younger man, he might even swim.

But he knows better by now. He knows the salty, tacky air turns to molasses in his lungs when hurricane winds thrash the lighthouse until the foundation groans, and that the ocean is neither placid nor gentle. There are moments of calm—but they never last long.

The puffins hop along the jagged black rocks toward the edge of the shore, where Ben can’t seem them. The occasional seal surfaces to sunbathe but he is otherwise only visited by gills and putrid tangles of seaweed and rotted fish. Puffins are interesting animals but he doesn’t want to frighten them off.

He sighs and slowly gets to his feet, wincing. Light keeping is catching up to him. Two decades of it, broken up during deployment, moving from kerosene and Fresnel lenses to the new automation controlled by outside forces and not Ben himself. It’s not the physical labor it used to be, but all those years running up and down stairs has taken its toll on his joints.

The cold doesn’t help. It chews where the aches settle until he’s miserable and limping about to clean or paint or dust the balcony.

And the temperatures will drop as hurricane season falls upon the coast, worsening his condition, but he has no intention of leaving. Full automation should be completed within ten more years, and he knows he’s a dying breed, but this is _all _he knows.

Ben stows his sketch pad under his arm as he limps off to check on the chickens first. They don’t have much place to run or hide on such a small island, and there are no natural predators to kill them off. He has quite a flock and eats well, even when a storm rolls through and flings some off for shark snacks.

His coop is surrounded by double-layered concrete that has withstood ten years of storms. Few trees remain on the island but the chickens are strategically placed in a valley to protect them, and the trees grow in for added safety.

Most of the birds have the sense to hide and they do now, cooing nervously at his approach. Ben coos like a pigeon back at them as he opens a box.

“Don’t mind me.” He picks out three eggs and tucks them in his jacket pocket. “I’m just here for breakfast.”

_Late _breakfast. He should’ve been up hours ago at dawn. Should’ve. Not necessary with automation.

It gives him more time to study the island and report his findings back to the Coast Guard: tide patterns, flora and fauna. Shipwrecks are infrequent but he’s boated out to more than one and salvaged what he could. He’s never found any survivors.

Ben returns to the small cottage attached to the lighthouse, the place he’s called home for over a decade. The introduction of electricity has been welcome: cooking is easier, and he doesn’t have to work all night to keep the kerosene lamps lit. Most importantly, the beacon doesn’t need constant attention throughout the night.

It’s safer for the sailors. He doesn’t need to stay awake all night tending to the lens during storms, or spend hours calibrating gears, trimming wicks, and cleaning kerosene from his hands. It’s a benefit.

That’s what the Coast Guard says, anyway.

Certainly, indoor plumbing and running water has been _more _than welcome. Ben lives alone for the bulk of the year, only visited every three months for resupply from the Guard, and those visits are brief. Always men. Short conversation.

He sets to boiling water for breakfast in the small kitchen, outfitted with a sink, stove, and cabinets for his iron pots and pans. He’s painted the whitewashed walls over and over again as they peel from the cold and moisture but the concrete is always visible to some degree. The floors are old, creaking wood, sealed each summer to slow down the rot.

It’s quiet—simple, the life he enjoyed before conscription and deployment to the Pacific theater. Here he can drown out the echoes of artillery and keep busy enough that his mind has little time to wander back to those memories.

Ben sits at his old wooden table and eats his three eggs. He kills two or three chickens a week and uses all parts, from the gizzards to the marrow, and they still live in great numbers on the island. Northward he tends a vegetable garden with squash and the like. Little else will grow in the rough soil.

It’s a lovely day, so he bundles in a thick wooly fisherman’s sweater and cap for a sweep of the island. He frowns at his knuckles, worn red, skin thickened from years of enduring cold saltwater and digging through muddy foxholes. They’re rough, covered in calluses.

Ben hesitates near the door. He turns his hand again and looks at the other. His mind wanders to the last person he touched with his hands—the last woman—days after his return from the Pacific. Everyone was happy to be alive and he was no different, finally overcoming _years _of reluctance—

_“Don’t touch me. Your skin is much too rough.”_

He tears open the door and slams it shut behind him. Shit. He forgot the logbook.

• • •

“October thirteenth, nineteen-fifty three, eight o’clock post-meridiem.”

Night has settled across the island. Ben sits at his table recording his observations throughout the day: high tide and low tide, movements of the puffins, and changes in the winds. It’s hardly necessary anymore but he’s never been one to embrace change.

He rubs his mouth. His long johns are thick and gray, neck stretched from the many washes and tears sloppily sewn closed. He’s gotten much better with sewing over the years, though. It’s preferable to throwing away perfectly good clothes, even when the visiting Guard laughs and offers him new ones.

Ben runs a hand through his damp black hair and carries on writing.

“Not much to report—clear skies, moderate temperature of fifty degrees. Some visiting puffins that may be building a nest. Boat is moored, anchor in place, no signs of erosion. Completed some small repairs to the lighthouse: superficial sealant along cracks in the stairs, painting near the cliffs.”

It’s been a bit of a dull day. He visits the light once a night to ensure it’s working properly but otherwise is free to occupy himself in his cottage. Many of his days are dull and he spends the nights watching the beacon lance through darkness and clouds nearly thirty miles out to warn ships of danger.

He taps his fingers on the table. Wind howls around the solid frame of the cottage and waves thrash the cliffs not a hundred feet away. His radio is mostly quiet tonight, save for a random SOS transmission meant for the Coast Guard.

It buzzes, static giving way to a human voice. Ben glances at the box and stops tapping.

_“Northern Atlantic nor’easter inbound. High position. May strike coastline of Maine.”_

Ben groans. Son of a bitch.

He rises from his chair with a little difficulty and lumbers to the dresser filled with warm, thick clothes. The fishing will be better after the storm and he’ll almost certainly have lobsters in his traps, but the chickens are all over the fucking place and half of them won’t make it.

He shrugs into a wool red and white checkered coat over his long johns and his usual cotton pants. Better to herd as many as he can to the coop.

The ocean as he knows it has returned. Black waves pound the rocks, spewing icy water up the side of the lighthouse, and the stars are snuffed out behind thick clouds. The air is heavy with suffocating salt and brine that makes him cough and draw his collar over his mouth. There’s a storm brewing, and it will be here _very _soon—and if he doesn’t want to be swept away, he needs to hurry.

Ben makes his way down a short path to the coop. More than a dozen chickens are already nestled in with their eggs but the rooster, what he _really _needs, is nowhere to be seen. The next resupply won’t arrive until after hurricane season, which will force him to find protein with fishing and trapping alone.

“Fuck!” he snaps.

He turns about, squinting through the murky darkness. Rain pelts his head; wind batters his steps until he can’t move at all, or he’ll be swept away.

No rooster, no more chickens. They may last until the next resupply but another cock won’t come for three months after, and the chickens are easy food. Fishing requires him to take the boat out on the open ocean where sharks circle and enormous whales could accidentally overturn him.

Ben forces through the high winds toward the lower part of the island where many of the chickens hide during storms. He carefully crawls down slippery rocks riddled with sharp barnacles and does find two chickens cowering there. They’re frightened enough that he can scoop them up under his arm.

The wind shrieks through the thick rocks. His time is quickly running out: find the rooster, risking death in the waves, or let it be and hope for the best.

He slices his palm climbing back to the shore. Rain comes down in a torrent now, driving so hard and fast that he can hardly see ten feet ahead. He curses up a storm and turns his shoulder to buffet the frigid water from his face, holding the chickens tight. If he can’t find the rooster, he needs to keep the chickens safe.

Somehow he reaches the coop and drops the chickens inside. They hunker down as Ben turns to look across the wide rolling landscape, heart sinking. The rooster is likely out at sea and dead already.

He can’t fish every day. His body isn’t what it used to be. The goddamn bird must still be alive. It has to be.

“Jesus fuck—” Ben grits his teeth, grimacing from the harsh rain. “Fucking—_birds_!”

There’s one more place to check. It’s steep, but the hens like picking for crayfish there.

He ignores the screaming pain in his joints and trudges for the outcropping. Waves sweep up and spray him with more tacky water but he keeps going and going, just as dogged as he was in the military. Just as stubborn as he’s always been.

This place is pure fucking misery but it’s the only place where he feels like he belongs.

Ben grabs a sharp rock and leans forward to look into the outcropping. Somehow the rooster is there, cowering with a hen, shuddering from the cold and the waves. That’s fine. At least it’s alive.

“You’re a stupid son of a bitch!” he shouts. He starts down the rocks, shaking his head. “I’m going to kill myself dragging you back!”

He climbs down as fast as his body will allow. The birds don’t resist—he grabs them both and shoves them inside the safety of his coat—and he turns the other way to figure out his climb up again.

His eyes sweep across a bizarre sight.

Someone has washed up on the rocks, limp, clearly unconscious or dead. Ben stares as the wind whips around him but he hardly hears it and forgets his chickens, because _this_… _this…_

A violent wave crashes over the rocks over the body and nearly drags it back out to sea. Ben jerks forward for it, heart pounding faster than it has in years, and he manages to catch the upper arm before the wave takes the person away.

He clenches his jaw and _pulls_. His boots have no grip on the slippery rocks but he pulls and pulls like he never has before, loosening his grip on the hen and cock. He doesn’t give a shit at that moment. This is better. This _could _be better.

Ben hauls the body over the rocks and hesitates when he sees it’s entirely naked, riddled with gashes and bruises. They must be dead, but he’s willing to risk life and limb to bring them up to the cottage, because _this_…

Is a woman.

He crouches and throws her over his shoulder. She’s not very heavy and drapes there, swaying as he turns to climb the rocks. The birds shiver where he holds them, but he’s also holding the woman, and he needs at least one free hand to scramble up.

It’s illogical and utter stupidity, but Ben drops the birds.

The ocean seems to pounce on his idiocy—a wave suddenly runs over the rocks and they’re both swept away without any pretense. He looks over his shoulder at the churning black sea once more before climbing up the rocks with a much better prize.

Ben shifts his grip to carry the woman bridal style instead, assessing her while he walks. She’s young, athletic, and very pretty. Her eyes are closed and her head lolls but her body is still a bit warm, and her skin feels soft under his fingertips.

His heart pounds as he reaches the cottage and manages to pry the door open. Food doesn’t matter much. He’s carrying a young woman in his arms, and he hasn’t even _seen _a woman in almost a decade.

The door slams shut behind him and he leans on it for a minute to catch his breath. His arms tremble but he doesn’t let her go or move to put her on the bed. He stares, gathering her closer, gaze wandering down her neck and over her breasts. Her chest is rising and falling—slight, but enough.

Ben has found a live young woman. He’ll gladly starve.


	2. Heaven sent you to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget ben is an unreliable narrator

The island has little in the way of resources, so Ben keeps a stash of wood in the small bedroom of the cottage. More is brought in during resupply but he uses it sparingly, only on the coldest nights when frostbite nips at his toes.

He carries an armful of logs to the small fireplace off the side of the kitchen. The woman must be frozen half to death and he certainly won’t risk her dying on hypothermia. She survived the ocean, from sharks to rocks to powerful currents—death from cold would be just unfitting.

The cot he sleeps on is in the main room wedged into the corner. She lies there in repose, swaddled in all the blankets he could find around the cottage. Her chest continues rising and falling, eyes flicking beneath the lids, and he’s elated that she’s still alive.

Alive, young, and beautiful. He’s tried not to let his eyes linger and didn’t make any unnecessary touches, but the image of her breasts is seared in his mind and he allows himself to dwell on it. It’s impossible to ignore the obvious.

No SOS calls come in over the radio, so Ben isn’t sure where the strange woman is from. He stokes the fire and slips into the bedroom to change into dry clothes, concerned she may wake up and see. He’ll need to attempt contact with the Coast Guard to find the possible capsizing, but she should be able to fill him in when she wakes.

_If _she wakes. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He learned long ago not to bother with that.

But for now he intends to focus on keeping her warm and safe from the wind. His rooster is gone but she looks athletic, so she should be able to help around with fishing and maintaining the birds and garden.

Ben sits in a chair at the table, shifting, staring at her. He strokes his upper lip with his index finger. If she works outside with her hands, they may develop calluses like his. He wants her to have soft hands, and _be _soft, and settle into the cottage the way women do, bringing warmth and—

He blinks and reddens. Christ. She’s not going to wake up and agree to being a housewife.

Maybe she already is. He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, staring, rubbing his jaw. She’s very pretty. Her stomach didn’t _look_ changed from pregnancy but a young attractive woman is likely married. It’s inappropriate to linger on images of an unconscious woman’s breasts, especially if she may be a mother.

Ben isn’t an _animal_. He’s never had issues restraining himself around women. Of course, his experience with them is severely lacking, but—

She stirs.

He swallows nervously as the girl winces and squirms under the blankets. The fire casts a soft orange glow across her skin and when she blinks bright green eyes, she looks inhuman, alien. Lovely.

The fire crackles, sheets rustling. She blinks again like a bleary kitten and whimpers, pawing for the mattress and struggling to sit up. Her blankets fall away and Ben averts his eyes to the ceiling.

“Hi,” he mutters. He searches the cracks and clears his throat. “I’m Ben. The lightkeeper.” His fingers tap faster. “Found you on the rocks.”

The woman doesn’t reply. He looks down when he hears the cot creak and sees she getting to her wobbling feet, swaying, eyes glassy. It appears she’s drunk but that can’t possibly be the case.

Ben stands, hand out. “Uh—you should lie down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She ignores him. Her feet shuffle to the door and she collapses against it with a soft groan, then tries the handle. The storm still rages outside and he can’t risk her getting out and being washed away.

He hesitantly crosses the room and touches her bare shoulder. A long red scar becomes apparent under her jaw and he frowns. Could be a ligature mark.

The woman whirls around with her teeth bared, hissing like an angry cat. Ben jumps back in shock—her teeth are pointed like a shark’s and jagged like a seal’s, and her bright green eyes give her a predatory expression. Something like a growl rumbles in her chest as she slowly recoils.

She wiggles the handle. He tries pleading with her to stop but she doesn’t care, growling and yanking, determined to kill herself out in the storm.

“You can’t—” Ben slams a palm on the door just past her head to keep it closed. “You can’t go out there.”

This time when she turns, her hissing is short lived. Her expression goes blank and she stumbles, blinking hard, sagging against the heavy door.

He catches her before she faints. It’s sudden and dramatic, green eyes rolling back as she crumples toward the floor, but Ben is ready. He gets an arm around her middle and brings her to his chest, frowning at her lolling head and strange teeth.

She’s disoriented from being tossed around by the waves. She’ll be fine when she has some water.

When she’s settled in bed again Ben searches the cupboards for a glass. Mostly he has mugs but an actual glass will be a bit nicer. He has some squash set aside already but will venture out in the morning for a chicken and eggs. No point in dying tonight.

He sets the food and water on the table and patiently waits for her to wake again. Only the spitting of the fire and wail of the wind keep him company.

Her second awakening is much more subdued. Ben watches as she moans and writhes, long legs tenting the blankets, and he clasps his hands in his lap. It’s been a _very _long time since he’s heard a woman moan and blood reroutes. He rubs the back of his neck and looks at the fire.

She squints at him and growls. Again she sits up, clearly unperturbed by her nudity, and exposes herself to him from the chest to the waist. She’s riddled with bruises and slashes that appear to be from an animal and her sharp eyes flicker about the small cottage like _she’s _an animal.

Ben motions to the food. “Are you hungry? Can you tell me your name?”

No response. She tries to stand and collapses back to the cot, clutching her head. His gaze wanders down her breasts over her flat stomach and down long, tan legs. He squeezes his hands together and clicks his tongue, feigning nonchalance.

“Well you’re—pretty,” he attempts lamely. Fuck. “I’ll call you… Rey, for now. Like a ray of sun, right?”

Rey shoots him a venomous glare.

Ben offers her the glass of water and she grudgingly accepts, guzzling it and promptly hurling the glass into the wall. She tries to stand _again _and Ben realizes he needs to restrain her until she regains her senses. She’s going to get herself killed.

He fetches some rope from the bedroom and returns to find Rey slumped on the floor. She stiffens as Ben gently picks her up and resists, hissing, thrashing with a breathless sound like she’s been recently ill.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He drags her to the cot and a hoarse scream follows. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

Her long nails bury in his wrist and she bites.

Ben yelps and releases, already bleeding from the barnacle gash, and Rey darts away. She flings open the door and escapes before he can recover.

His stomach sinks. Shit.

He rushes after her without his boots or jacket, straight into the pouring rain and cold. Rey stumbles toward the shore where he found her and he shouts her name, but she doesn’t stop.

Ben doesn’t close the door. He runs after her, panicked at the prospect of losing something warm and soft on a godforsaken hunk of slimy rocks.

She makes it down the climb to the outcropping just as he comes upon her. The wind whips and howls, tossing her brown hair about in a wild circle, and she looks like a spirit for a moment. He stares and wonders if that’s exactly what she is.

Rey pauses there for a minute. She stares at the water and her gaze slowly lifts to the gray horizon. Green eyes flicker along the clouds and the roaring waves, and her jaw clenches like she’s considering something. Her fists ball.

Then she turns and starts back toward Ben. Her eyes are downcast, resigned. He’s not sure why.

She climbs the rocks nimbly, much faster than he ever could, and keeps her sharp gaze in his as she steps on the grass. Ben blinks and stares back, ignoring the furious wind and waves, somehow able to stand there without being buffeted around.

Rey offers one more contemptuous look before walking back towards the cottage. The wind hardly moves her and she vanishes into the thick veil of rain like a specter.

• • •

Water has flooded inside the cottage when Ben returns. It’s not much but enough to be a nuisance and risk rotting through the floorboards.

Rey has curled up in bed again, wrapped in blankets, back turned to the door. She doesn’t move when he turns the lock but growls softly as he walks past for some rags. What a wild little thing. What is she?

“Storm should slow be morning,” he calls from the bedroom. He picks through the chaos until he finds a few old rags. “Resupply will be here after hurricane season. They’ll take you to shore.”

No reply.

He finds her up and drinking straight from the tap when he enters the sitting area again. She’s on her tiptoes and growls when he stares a bit too long.

There’s very little room in the cottage for Ben to give her space, or avoid looking at her naked body. He focuses on the wall but still sees her from the corner of his eye, coiled like a snake about to strike, all lean muscle and golden skin. She’s beautiful and a little frightening; the ocean in flesh.

Rey wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She prowls to the refrigerator, keeping her sharp eyes on him as she yanks it open and paws inside. She gropes along the door and grabs an egg—which she promptly pops in her mouth.

A sharp crunch follows and she keeps glaring at Ben while she chews. Raw egg isn’t entirely odd to eat but the shell is another story.

He hovers near the dresser. Rey grabs two more eggs and her chewing fills the cottage, and she doesn’t look away from Ben for a second. She’s hungry. Nervous. Maybe ill with a strange disease. Her behavior is normal, considering the circumstances.

Ben raises an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. “You can boil those, you know.”

She eats another like she’s throwing his suggestion back in his face.

He chews his inner cheek, studying her, and his gaze begins to wander again. Rey pillages the fridge for chicken and eats it with her bare hands, slicking them with blood and fat. She’s very pretty; even prettier than the pin-up girl pictures passed around in his unit. He’s always been partial to Marilyn Monroe.

But Rey doesn’t look like Marilyn, and for some reason, he still finds her _extremely _attractive.

Ben shuffles to the bathroom. He cleans the shallow bite from Rey and his gash from climbing the rocks. He needs a shower to wash off the ocean spray before he’s comfortable enough for bed, but that presents a problem. He has one bed and he wouldn’t want to impose himself on his new guest.

Water runs. He stares, slowly turning his rough hands under it, swallowing a painful lump. She won’t want him to touch her, anyway.

The door bumps into the wall. He turns and jumps back when Rey comes strutting through not a foot in front of him. Naked—very naked.

“Put some clothes on!” Ben snaps. His face is hot and so is the rest of him. His hands slips off the counter, wet and white-knuckled. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

She peers into the standing shower, arching on her tiptoes again. It gives him a clear and tempting view of her sloped back down to her ass and he doesn’t try to look away. His grip tightens on the counter. Fuck. What the fuck.

Rey turns sharply. Ben holds his breath as she closes the space between them, pressing her lithe body against his from chest to hip. He draws back as she leans on her tiptoes again to get in his face, expression contorted irately. Her lips are pink and plush and he can’t resist staring at them and the sharp teeth concealed behind them.

She points to the shower and growls.

“Oh—” Ben manages to sidle away to start the water for her. “It’s cold but better than nothing. I’ll bring you clothes. They won’t fit.”

Rey pushes past him. He jerks back again at their proximity, heart pounding. Touch feels strange. Touching a woman is especially strange.

She pauses and glances at him over her shoulder. Her green eyes narrow and she takes a step toward him. Ben recoils, avoiding looking at her breasts, flexing his hands because he’s still tempted to touch them. Her nipples are rosy pink. He shouldn’t be looking.

Rey licks her lips. A small smile touches the corners of her mouth like she’s discovered something.

Another step, this one pressing her body up against his again. Ben flushes and huffs, overwhelmed by real human touch in years, mind buzzing with possibilities ranging from downright evil to slightly taboo. He tries to ignore the flow of blood down to his cock that Rey will feel on her lower belly.

Her eyes search his before she slips away. She glowers as she steps into the shower and closes the curtain, but the same eerie smile stays on her face.

Ben rushes from the bathroom to the main room, pacing, running a hand through his hair. He’s getting an erection and it’s turning his stomach for a myriad of reasons. He has no interest in taking care of it. It’s frightening and new, and change to his strict routine upsets him—especially change he can’t control.

He tears open the front door and steps out into the storm, eyes closed, shuddering from something other than cold. His past comes creeping back when the monotony is broken.


	3. We are accidents waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i completely and stupidly forgot to warn of the gay slur in this chapter and I apologize. adding it to the tags as well

Rey is asleep in the cot when Ben comes back inside. He locks the door and watches her for a minute, mesmerized: because she’s a woman, the first one he’s seen in years, and she’s sleeping in his small bed.

It’s domestic. Normal.

Ben shuffles to the bathroom and strips for a shower. He winces at the sight of his erection, still present in spite of the cold, and it doesn’t fade when he steps under the icy spray of water. It’s inappropriate. She’s an unmarried young woman and he’s a light keeper who shouldn’t be fantasizing about shipwrecked young women.

He runs his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. Rey is lovely. She’s beautiful, with her tan skin and sharp, penetrating gaze. He hasn’t laid eyes on such a beautiful woman in years.

He glances over his shoulder toward the bathroom door. She won’t know the difference—if he decides to relieve himself. He can even blame it on the memories of Marilyn, and passing around the pictures of her smiling. Like he’s always done, Ben can shift his emotions onto something else.

His fingertips brush the length of his cock. It twitches and he shivers with pleasure. Rey is _lovely. _He’s never had sex with a woman, but he thinks he’d like to plunge into her, and fuck her, and feel her warm little body take him in. See her little teeth bared while she tries to take him in.

Ben hesitates before curling his fingers around his cock. He braces a trembling hand on the wall, leaning forward, eyes fluttering shut. It’s okay. It’s been years since he’s pleasured himself. It’s okay.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles.

He tries, but he can’t convince himself.

The cottage is quiet and dark when he emerges from the bathroom, but still wracked by wind and ocean. Rey is asleep on the cot, half naked in just a long sweater of Ben’s, and he pauses to stare at her. She’s beautiful and they’re all alone for a couple months. Just them.

A lesser man would take advantage—she can’t stop him, after all. But Ben tries not to be a lesser man. He has to respect her like he tries to respect all women.

He finds some blankets to lay on the floor; a makeshift bed, but it won’t last forever. Eventually he has to sleep in a real bed and there’s only one on the island. That means he may have to share with Rey, and feeling her soft body will be _tempting_.

Ben lies beside the cot and closes his eyes. This is okay for now. She’s frightened. He doesn’t want to frighten her any more.

• • •

_“Don’t be a faggot, Solo. C’mon.”_

_A woman screams into Reynolds’s palm. She’s pinned down by three other soldiers and has no hope of escape. It’s dark. No one will know. _

_Ben shifts his rifle. “I’m engaged,” he lies. _

_The other men laugh. His throat tightens and he fights the urge to run from the small house._

_ “Don’t be a faggot, Solo. Fuck her.”_

Ben sits bolt upright on the floor, chest heaving. Rey hisses from the kitchen but he doesn’t give a shit.

He rubs his face and sees her sitting on the table eating raw eggs. She narrows her eyes, naked save for the sweater that drapes down to her knees, and he stares. The sun shines through the kitchen window and makes her hair glow.

She hops down. He keeps staring as she saunters to him with the eggs still dripping from her mouth, same cocky smile on her face from the night before.

Ben needs to check on the chickens if the storm is over, but he just watches Rey as she sits on the edge of the cot beside him, licking her lips. His eyes trail down her long legs to her toes and back up to the small scrap of thigh under the shirt.

He clears his throat. “I have to check on the birds. Don’t try running into the ocean again.”

Rey lays back and yawns. That’s the best he figures he’ll get, so Ben changes in his bedroom and heads out to assess the damage.

There’s plenty: a couple shingles fell off the roof and an old net is beat to hell on the rocks. He checks the chicken coop and finds they’re alive and well, so he opens it up to let them roam the island and eat all the critters washed up on shore.

But the rooster is gone. A couple of the eggs might prove out to be roosters, but if they don’t that means his meat supply will dwindle.

Rey seems strong. She should be able to fish when she’s recovered some of her strength. But does he _want _her to, or does he want her to stay in the cottage? Safe. Alive. The sea is dangerous and she could be swept away like the rooster.

But she’s a survivor—clearly.

He checks the vegetable garden before he ambles back to the cottage, wincing from his aching joints. Rey stands on the cliff overlooking the churning ocean below, half-naked, brown hair wild in the breeze, and he forgets the soreness in his body for a minute.

She flexes her fists, jaw clenched. She’s glaring at the water and he worries she’s about to jump in, but she turns away, and her sharp green eyes flicker to him. Somehow she catches and reflects everything around her like a walking prism, and Ben is just as vulnerable to her odd quality.

Rey stalks along the shoreline and he doesn’t follow. Maybe she needs to be alone for a while.

• • •

Some time passes like that, until Ben thinks the monotony has returned.

The storm turned over some of the vegetable garden, so he picks what he can and replants the rest. Some of it keeps, giving the chickens a break for a while as he eats through the squash and eggs.

Ben repaints some brick damaged by the water and occasionally sees Rey wander by in his sweater or whatever else she’s pillaged from his dresser. Every time he sees her it makes his heart skip a beat.

Sometimes she looks like she might cry when she’s on the cliffs. She’ll rub her throat and stare, maybe sit down while she does it, but she never gets in.

At nightfall Ben returns to the cottage for a shower and something to eat. Rey is usually already there, lying on the cot completely naked without a shred of blanket or clothing to cover her. He’s given up demanding she put clothes on.

Today she’s on her stomach and he gets an eyeful of her ass before he looks away. He wants to sink his teeth into her—feel her skin under his fingertips. Only a woman asking for such things would insist on parading around nude.

Ben rubs his face as he walks to the bathroom for a shower. He strips out of his damp clothes and sets them aside for a wash, listening to the dull sound of the radio through the cracked door. Tomorrow should be a good day to hang the clothes out on the line for drying. Soon he’s going to run out.

He steps under the spray, shivering. Soon this will become monotonous and easy to digest like every other day on the island. That’s why he became a lightkeeper in the first place, and why he failed in the military. He’s not designed to change.

Rey will learn his habits and adapt to them. She may even be a great help until resupply comes and she leaves him behind.

He finds her lying on the cot when he’s through showering. She doesn’t move while he makes himself squash and eggs for dinner and shrugs when he offers her some. She’s tired today. Maybe she’s worried about the others lost when her ship capsized.

“Won’t be here long,” Ben says. He cracks an egg, shrugging. “I’m sure your family misses you. Kids and shit.” He pauses, peering over his shoulder. “You have any kids, Rey?”

She shakes her head. Her back is turned to him.

Ben licks his lips and smiles a little as he returns to cooking dinner. No kids. That’s good.

He eats at the table and washes up before going to his bed on the floor. Rey doesn’t turn over and he assumes she’s asleep, covered with the blanket instead of bared to him like usual. It’s for the best. The cottage can get cold and he doesn’t want her losing any fingers or toes.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Quiet settles over the cottage.

The cot creaks. Ben blinks as Rey leans over the edge and grabs the front of his shirt, yanking and growling. Her fingers are _freezing_ and he jerks back.

“What are you—”

She pulls until he sits up. He watches her squirm closer to the wall, green eyes glowing in the darkness, and she hisses at him. Does she want him to sleep in the bed or…?

Ben rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to sleep in the same bed. You look young. Don’t want anything to happen and spoil your chances of meeting a nice man on shore.”

Rey keeps pulling his wrist. He hesitates, but climbs into the small bed with her—because she insists.

There isn’t a lot of room. Ben settles on his side and Rey is already on him, pressing her cold lithe body against his like a leech on flesh. He shivers at the strange temperature but fans the blankets on them instead of making a comment.

Her small hands press to his chest, nails lightly digging in, and Ben wraps his arms around her. They shift, adjusting to one another.

Rey nudges her head roughly under his chin before she stills, curled against his chest. She’s naked. Her skin is icy and she’s naked and much smaller than Ben, and urges come to his mind unbidden.

He swallows and buries his face in her soft hair. She smells like the ocean no matter how many times she showers; like brine and warm sunshine and the balmy breeze on clear days. Ben presses his trembling fingertips into the skin at the small of her back. He could just roll over and take her.

It’s tempting, especially when she falls asleep, slipping into soft snores. There’s so much skin he wants to touch and taste and it’s overwhelming. Maybe he can take a little of her while she’s asleep.

Ben closes his eyes as his fingers drift from her back over her hip. He traces at the tip, skimming her soft skin down her thigh and up her back, along her ribs, up to her shoulder. It fits nicely in his palm. He squeezes, then keeps a tight grip down her bicep. She’s _strong_. Muscular.

His thoughts wander. Would she be able to resist him? Could he gently make love to her while she’s asleep and pliant, or would her teeth come out? She doesn’t seem capable of relaxing and giving in—much to his own excitement, Ben figures he’ll have to take her with some degree of force.

_You’ve done that before._

Darkness trickles in, ebbing on a wave of nausea. What is he doing—what is he thinking? Jesus Christ. He’s never… he would _never. _Being alone on this godforsaken island is driving him completely batshit. He would never force a woman. Never.

All the touching is making him anxious. Ben adjusts his pants to conceal his erection and pretends it isn’t from fantasizing about taking Rey against her will. He shivers and hugs her tighter until she growls softly, a little warning under her breath.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

She presses her cold toes to his shins, growling even as she struggles closer to his warmth. They huddle together in the darkness while waves crash on the rocks, and Ben smiles as he closes his eyes.


	4. Waiting to happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yah not everything is answered but theorizing on what Rey is and why she doesn’t leave is more fun to me hohoho

One night, Ben wakes to Rey squirming beside him in bed. He blearily opens his eyes in the cold darkness. Her back is to his chest, bottom pressed against his groin, and she’s whimpering while she moves, writhing under the thick blankets. Is he hurting her?

“Hey,” he mumbles. “You okay?”

Rey doesn’t respond. Her whimpers remain muffled in the pillow as her hips roll slowly—and Ben comes to an uncomfortable realization.

She’s touching herself.

It seems odd but he can tell: her arm is shifting and her hips are moving and the sounds are unmistakable. Ben reddens and tries moving away from her; tries giving her space. She’s touching herself. Why? He’s _right here_. Is she asleep?

But his words don’t seem to bother her. Rey carries on with her soft pleasured chirps and squirming, ignoring how hard Ben is getting against her bottom, until her breath hitches. She bucks. Her heart flutters somewhere near his bicep.

Then she sighs and yawns, and falls asleep.

Ben spends the rest of the night awake and staring at the wall. He slips away from Rey when the sun comes up and hurries outside to tend to the chickens, distracting himself in their care. He’s dreaming. No woman would do that around a man she doesn’t know.

He picks vegetables and gathers eggs and when he comes back to the cottage, finds Rey is gone.

He checks the entire island: he scours the crags and climbs the two trees, terrified that he’s been left alone again. The boat is gone. She took the boat, so now he’s going to starve and she’s going to drown. What is she? How does she appear and disappear? Why would she—why did she try to tempt him like that? _Was _she tempting him?

Ben returns to the cottage around nightfall and finds the lamps already lit. Frowning, he ambles his aching body to the door and peers inside.

A whole mess of fish lies in a pile on the table. The window is open but the smell is hard to contain, and Ben winces at it, hesitating to shut the door. Lotta fish: cod, mackerel, halibut, haddock. Rey went fishing—that’s where she was all day.

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter with a raw, half-eaten carcass in her hands, chewing and drumming her heels on the cabinets. She smiles, baring pointy teeth. All the fish have little bite marks in them. Long gouges, too, like she was drawing the line through the water and hooking their gills.

Ben closes the door. “Wow, guess you were busy. Thought you’d be shark food.”

Rey rolls her eyes and carries on eating.

He cooks his fish before digging in, still afraid to say anything to her outright. She could’ve been asleep. It would make things _very_ awkward if he started going around asking her if she was touching herself.

So Ben eats quietly and thanks Rey for going fishing. She shrugs it off, gorging herself well into the night after he’s showered and ready for bed.

It’s great: he has a second set of hands to help, and Rey is clearly an excellent fisherman. Some of the weight lifts from his shoulders, knowing he’s not alone and he has a woman who can help out, and the night doesn’t seem so bleak anymore.

But other things still haunt Ben.

• • •

_ “Feels good, doesn’t it?”_

_It does—it does. He nods, panting heavily on the woman’s hair, body possessed by the need for release. It feels so good. Wet and warm and soft; it’s like he’s back home in a bath, not overseas, not fucking some poor woman against her will._

_Ben tunes out the laughter of his platoon, and their leering encouragement: _harder, Solo, faster_! He wants to come but doesn’t, torn between getting it over with and enjoying his first time being with a woman. It feels so good. _

_Someone pats his head. “C’mon, it’s Rourke’s turn. Plenty more where she came from.”_

_But Ben doesn’t want to stop. He shivers and curls closer to her shivering body, closing his eyes, losing himself in the tight embrace of her. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He thrusts gently, puffing against her throat as he comes. “I’m sorry.”_

_I’m sorry. He can apologize as much as he wants and feel as _guilty _as he wants, but it doesn’t change what he’s done, and it doesn’t save him from court martial. Dishonorable discharge means there’s only one way for him to go when the ships come home. _

_Back to the lighthouse he goes; back to the suffocating quiet and calm, and back to worse memories. It’s a fitting punishment. _

• • •

Morning comes, chasing away the nightmare, returning Ben to what he knows. What he’s always known.

He sits up in bed to find Rey is already gone. After a shower and small breakfast, bundled up in his coat, he finds she’s taken the boat out to go fishing again. It’s good to have some help when his own body struggles against the cold and wind.

Ben busies himself for the day, and one day bleeds into another, and another. They repeat: Rey is gone before he wakes and returns around supper with a bounty of fish. She doesn’t speak except through her growls and soft chirps when they’re lying in bed together.

But at night her small sounds grow into happy chirps and coos, and Ben pretends not to notice what she’s doing. She struts around the cottage naked most days and comes to bed naked, pretending to ignore the way it makes his cheeks redden. Her little pleasured sounds don’t help. It’s torture.

Ben nuzzles into her hair one night while she touches herself. He places a hand on her hip, fingers trembling, just wanting to feel the way her body moves and her muscles shift. Her bottom pushes into his groin and he pulls her closer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

Rey growls. She tries rolling away but Ben moves with her, lying across her back, pinning her to the cot. He breathes in her soft hair and runs his hands up her sides. She really _is _beautiful. Strong, too, but not strong enough to resist him.

No one will know. Even when the resupply comes, they won’t know, either. She’s a mute.

Heart pounding, Ben shushes her struggling. It keens into a distressed whine as he shuffles his pants and struggles closer to her warm body. No one will know. They never knew when Ben was suffering and they won’t know when Rey is.

And she’s been teasing him for so long—it’s been weeks of it, and she should know better. The woman overseas should’ve known better, too. Ben should’ve. Shouldn’t have been alone like that with Snoke; should’ve fought back harder than he did.

“Shh…” Ben pushes down his sweatpants, kissing her cheek. “Let me show you something better.”

The cot creaks as she hisses and claws to escape. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and strokes his cock, whispering as he prods her entrance. She’s already wet but not quite the right temperature. It doesn’t matter. She’s still perfect.

Rey stiffens, yowling like a cat as Ben gently penetrates her. The quiet strains in his ears and he tugs the blankets across them, sinking inside her unwilling body as fast as he can. The quicker the better. It’s better if he doesn’t stop to think about it, just follows instinct like he did in the military.

This way he doesn’t need to touch his own body to completion. He pants in Rey’s ear, murmuring while she whimpers and limply resists him. This feels right.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I know what you want.”

Muscles tighten around his length, drawing him in deeper and wrapping him in velvety heat. Ben’s eyes roll and he sets to fucking her on the small cot in the silent darkness, one hand grasping the end table and the other one her hip. It feels incredible. It’s his second time with a woman and it feels _incredible. _

And she doesn’t complain about his rough hands or the way he pounds into her. Rey arches a bit; he thinks she might even climax, judging by a whimper and little contractions down his cock. Ben grunts and fucks her roughly into the bed, chasing his orgasm that comes within a handful of minutes.

His skin slaps against hers in a chorus of groans. He shivers and gasps as he comes inside her, thrusting eagerly in her wet heat, filling her like the woman from so many years ago. Rey just huffs and takes it, pinned underneath him, legs spread and accepting.

Then it’s over, and Ben is left empty.

• • •

He finds her standing on the bluffs the next morning.

When he would cry during his time with Snoke, the small gifts helped ease the pain. Ben has found some flowers that he’s wrapped with twine to bring to Rey, hoping it will help ease hers. The first time is never easy and his actions didn’t help.

She doesn’t turn at his approach. Her hands hang limp at her sides and she continues gazing over the churning ocean twenty feet below. Ben swallows a lump and tries to smile as he ambles closer.

“Brought you something,” he says.

Rey remains stone still. The salty breeze sweeps her hair and he catches a soft sniffle.

Ben walks up to stand beside her, offering the bundle of flowers. Her steely eyes track the waves and for a moment he thinks she’s considering jumping. He’s thought of it before, but the type of agony waiting in the rocks below isn’t worth it.

Rey closes her eyes. Her lower lip quivers as she accepts the flowers, then allows Ben to wrap an arm around her waist. It’s nice to touch a woman again. Maybe she can stay here with him—they can be happy together on the island. They will be.

“…I’m sorry,” he says. He pauses, chewing his cheek. “About last night. But you’ve been asking me for a long time, haven’t you?”

She has. She’s been touching herself and parading around nude, and he just gave her what she wanted. It’s the way of the world.

Ben kisses her temple and watches the ocean by her side for a while. There will be more time to discuss where she’s from and what her scars mean; how she can fish so well and why her teeth are pointed. For now he’s found a partner, and that’s all he’s ever wanted.


End file.
